


Collision Course

by Deepdarkwaters



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Student/Teacher, M/M, Mistaken Identity, Online Dating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-12
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-09 14:04:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15269064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Deepdarkwaters/pseuds/Deepdarkwaters
Summary: When Harry Hart loses his job as a tailor after thirty-four years, he decides to start taking evening classes in cookery or life drawing or something just to waste some newly empty hours.Then he accidentally meets history teacher Gary Unwin, and accidentally signs up for his class instead.Meanwhile, he's pretty sure he's falling in love via sexts with a man from a dating app whose name he doesn't even know.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Anon request [on tumblr](http://deepdarkwaters.tumblr.com) for a Hartwin student/teacher AU - this is possibly backwards to how you intended it, but hope it turns out fun anyway!

An aching head full of rage is probably a perfectly normal thing to have at a time like this, but it will be a freezing cold day in hell before Harry ever gives Chester fucking King the satisfaction of knowing that one of his shots has landed at last.

He speaks with the same mild, borderline amused tone as always. "A strange choice of suit, isn't it, to fire me in?"

Chester's eyes narrow. "What do you mean?"

"The three-piece grey windowpane check, finished down to the smallest detail"--Harry holds up his hands--"by these very fingers less than two weeks before you called me in here to tell me the quality of my work has been steadily declining over the last few years and you have no option but to let me go."

Now he looks like he's bitten into a lemon, the miserable old bastard. Good. "Yes, well," Chester says smoothly after the briefest of pauses to collect himself, "I suppose even a stopped clock is right twice a day."

Harry allows himself the indulgence of a quick fantasy where he flings himself across the gap between their armchairs and throttles Chester to death.

Then he stands up, wishes the business luck with a sarcasm he's trained over his lifetime to cling to his words like honey, and leaves. Down the stairs, past Hamish in the hall and Andrew behind the counter, out through the front door, down the steps, and away up the street towards Green Park and home.

Harry Hart is fifty-two years old, and unemployed for the first time in thirty-four years.

 

* * *

 

A crisis meeting at the pub isn't exactly top of his to-do list right now - he'd rather be at home drinking enough gin to start believing that posting all his Kingsman suits through the paper shredder in his study is an acceptable way of addressing his hurt feelings - but James Spencer is irrepressible when he's outraged about something. He chases Harry halfway down Savile Row and hustles him into a cab instead, collecting Alistair and Hamish from the front steps and whizzing off across Mayfair towards Mr Fogg's.

"We can't solve every problem in the world with cocktails," Harry says grumpily, but James only looks at him like he's said something immensely stupid.

"Well, have you tried? _Try_ , at least."

He strongarms Harry into their usual banquette in the corner, and quickly conjures up a round of gin sours and offensively fruity whisky concoctions that makes Hamish curl his lip like he can smell a mystery fart in the air - although, like every week, he doesn't actually go as far as declining.

"It's a damn travesty," James announces eventually when nobody else speaks up.

Harry glares at the egg froth in his drink and says nothing, which James seems to find encouraging.

"You know it's only so he can drag in his sorry little prig of a grandson, don't you?" he continues. "This rotten foetus would have been expelled from school a dozen times over if dear old daddy weren't in cahoots with all the other old boys who run the place. Spoiled rotten, never in his life had to face up to the consequences of the appalling way he treats people."

"He had a howling tantrum at Roxy's twelfth birthday party," Alistair says. "Because she had a heap of presents to open later and he didn't."

"Yes, and when she told him to stop carrying on he screamed at his father to kick her out. Of her own birthday party! I mean, we ought to feel sorry for him really, I suppose. It's not as if he had much of a chance to learn how to behave with that dreadful family. But isn't 'don't be a horrid little fucking toad' a fundamental thing, like knowing how to breathe without having to check the steps on YouTube every bloody time?"

"What happened to the army?" Hamish asks, pretending he's not enjoying how much raspberry syrup and honey there is mixed with his whisky. "The way Chester was bragging about that a while ago, you'd think the boy was some kind of superhero."

James snorts, derision interfering momentarily with his ability to pipe his rum and ginger into his mouth through the straws. "Unlucky for him, his family couldn't save him from being kicked out of there once it became clear what a lazy snotty coward he was. Talked back one too many times, refused to follow orders, kept starting fights - out on his arse, and presumably too useless to make his own way in the world. From what I gather his mother threw quite a tantrum of her own, and next thing we know Chester's sacking the finest tailor in this city to make room in the workshop for her precious baby instead."

They're all silent for a while, drinking, thinking. Then Hamish says, "Surely he won't last here, either. He'll get bored having to do some work, or think he's above serving people, and walk out in a strop. Chester's going to ring you up in two weeks begging you to come back."

"Chester can bugger himself with an entire bolt of Harris tweed!" Harry snaps, and knocks back the rest of his drink. "No, look, I appreciate your outrage, all of you, I really do," he says a bit more calmly, blotting his mouth on his handkerchief. "But thirty-four years is a bloody long time to spend pretending you don't utterly despise a person. And I don't live too extravagantly, I've got plenty of money saved - perhaps retirement isn't a bad idea."

Silence again, vaguely uncomfortable. Harry's always been the kind of person who abhors not having something to do, and backtracking on that now seems like a desperate attempt to save face, which obviously it is, and they know it, and he knows they know it, and now he's gone and made it awkward.

"Another drink?" Alistair offers. Harry nods, and hears James murmur _get him something with a paper umbrella in it_. In James' world, cocktails with paper umbrellas in are the quickest way to lift a bad mood. At least the thought is there.

"Retirement?" Hamish prompts, and Harry heaves out a sigh that feels like it comes from the very depths of his bitter sarcastic tired little soul. "What the hell are you going to do with all that time?"

"Develop my alcoholism," Harry suggests. He begins ticking off a count on his fingers. "Wear clothes from the high street. Read all of the books I've not had time for these last few years. Sleep until two in the afternoon if I want to. Download one of those atrocious apps and have an enormous amount of unfulfilling sex with younger men while my back's still good enough to handle it. Start writing navel-gazing poetry. Go and do a cookery course or life drawing or something at college with all the other beige old retirees."

Nobody has to say out loud what a fucking miserable life that sounds like. He already knows, he can feel it twisting sourly in his stomach like the roil of a hangover.

"Well, cheers," he mutters gloomily, picking the umbrella out of his ridiculous cocktail and flicking it at James. Paper umbrellas can't save him now, and trying to imagine anything that might is far too daunting to think about only a drink and a half in.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "You can't have tried every single eligible twenty-to-forty in zones one and two. Give me your phone, let me see how you're selling yourself."
> 
> He hands it over, far too tired to resist. "I took the age limits and zone limits off like two months ago. Getting a soggy blowie off a fifty-five year old traffic warden from Ruislip weren't exactly the high point of my life."
> 
> "Shagr," Roxy reads from the app, and gives him a look like he's trodden in shit and tracked it all over the carpets. "You're my best friend and I love you and cherish you, but I'm not going to sit here any more listening to you complain about the poor quality hookups you're getting from an app called _Shagr_."

When Eggsy gets home, hauling himself on weary legs up three flights of stairs to the flat because the lift isn't working again, Roxy's on the phone, and from the slightly despairing look on her face she's been there a while.

 _Wine?_ he mouths, holding up a bottle of rosé he picked up from the Tesco Express on the corner, and Roxy nods gratefully and mouths back _a huge one_. Pint glasses it is, then. He kicks his uncomfortable smart shoes off to lie haphazardly in the corner of the tiny entrance hall on his way through to the kitchen, and ransacks the cupboards for something to snack on before opening the bottle.

She's still stuck on the phone when Eggsy goes back in, a full pint glass in each hand and an enormous blue bag of Doritos clamped between his teeth. "Yes, Dad," she's saying patiently. "I know. You're right, it's very unfair - oh fucking hell, Eggsy's just brought me wine in a bloody pint glass. Stop talking at me and let me drink this, okay? Yes. See you soon. I love you too."

"Bye!" Eggsy calls over the kissy noises Roxy's making into the phone, then adds, "You did say a huge one."

"I'm not complaining." She lifts her legs up to let him sit at the other end of the sofa she's sprawling on, settling her feet comfortably back in his lap and stealing a handful of Doritos from his bag while he's distracted unknotting his tie. "I didn't expect you back so early, I thought you had a date?"

"Yeah, well, me too." It's hard to keep the note of injury out of his voice. "Sat like a mug for half an hour and the wanker never showed!" Injury turns seamlessly to gloom. "Bet he turned up, got a look at me, and fucked off again to delete himself off the app."

Roxy's an expert at the disdainful pull-yourself-together brand of glares. "What on earth are you talking about? You're reasonably handsome. You don't have an offensive moustache or ketchup on your tie. You're at least a six, and let me tell you, I've settled for plenty of those on a rainy Friday night."

Eggsy fights not to smile, because that's exactly what she's trying to make him do. "Yeah, thanks very much, very comforting in my hour of need."

"That's what I'm here for."

They lapse into companionable silence for a while then, just listening to the welcome sound of the rain on the windows after two months of suffocating summer. There's something soporific about it, a sort of wordless percussive lullaby; Eggsy catches himself just on the brink of nodding off, then sloshes half his wine down his front when he jerks back awake.

"Fucksake," he mutters, chucking the almost-empty bag of Doritos at Roxy and searching for something within grabbing distance to blot himself with, then giving up and just yanking the shirt over his head with the buttons still fastened, knocking his glasses crooked on the way. "If this was a porno you'd get over here and lick all this off my nips now."

Roxy throws the bag back, but with much better aim than Eggsy's so it collides with his chin and spills dusty crumbs down to catch in his sparse chest hair. "If this were a porno you'd actually have something in those trousers worth sitting on." She shifts over anyway, curling her legs up beneath herself and snuggling comfortably against Eggsy's side until he drapes his arm around her shoulders. "Look, maybe you just need to redo your profile or something. Get some new photos up. And stop going to dates straight from work in your"--she gestures vaguely at his naked chest and smart trousers--"teacher clothes. You look like you've never heard of fun."

"I think I read about it in a textbook once," Eggsy says seriously, then yelps and laughs when Roxy elbows him in the ribs.

"You can't have tried every single eligible twenty-to-forty in zones one and two. Give me your phone, let me see how you're selling yourself."

He hands it over, far too tired to resist. "I took the age limits and zone limits off like two months ago. Getting a soggy blowie off a fifty-five year old traffic warden from Ruislip weren't exactly the high point of my life."

"Shagr," Roxy reads from the app, and gives him a look like he's trodden in shit and tracked it all over the carpets. "You're my best friend and I love you and cherish you, but I'm not going to sit here any more listening to you complain about the poor quality hookups you're getting from an app called _Shagr_." She swipes and taps for a minute at the screen. "I'm signing you up for Mate Or Date instead. Username?"

It would be embarrassing admitting all this crap to anybody else in the world, but after eight years at and after uni spent living in each other's pockets there's no shame left. "I just been going with 69Eggsy. Advertise what you're after and everything."

"Yes, well that sounds like a really strange fucked-up recipe." She pauses for a moment and looks at him, head cocked. "Do you honestly like that? I can never concentrate on what I'm doing if they're good. And if they're bad it just becomes a chore."

"Not much different to any other type of banging, then," Eggsy points out, and Roxy concedes with a shrug, going back to her typing.

He's finished his pint of wine by the time she stops and hands his phone back to him, looking pleased with herself.

"'PM_Me_Your_Bookshelf, 26, London. PhD dropout' - oh, thanks, Rox, rub it in - 'looking for something to do with all this new free time.' Free time, you're having a fucking laugh, I still ain't marked them tests from Monday. 'Second-hand bookshops, chilly winter nights, vintage cars, dancing to 80s pop music, space documentaries. Just a few of the things that make me happy. Maybe you could help me add to the list.' Rox, I just want a dick every now and then, you're signing me up for a fucking husband _and_ making me sound like a complete fucking nerd."

"Oh, for god's sake. Just add it to the end, then." She grabs the phone and does it herself, letting him read as she types '(P.S. No strings fucks are available behind the counter.)' "There. Something for the potential boyfriends, something for the one-night-stands. Now get swiping. I'm going to have a bath."

Eggsy checks the photos she uploaded first, not quite trusting her to resist the temptation to put something awful up as a joke, but surprisingly she's behaved herself and chosen some fairly decent ones: a close up on some seawater droplets clinging to his collarbone on holiday in Magaluf last year; another close up of his smile, his teeth nibbling playfully on the arm of his glasses like a sexy secretary porno; a picture of the suit she got her dads to make for him after he finished his master's degree; a black and white one of his face hidden by the brim of a cap, his sharp jawline the only thing in focus, glinting with blond stubble; a cheeky torso shot, his hand fisted in his wet t-shirt - again on the Magaluf trip, Ryan's stag weekend - and pulling the white cotton up to bare the ridges of his abs. They're not nearly as defined now as they were fourteen months ago when he had the energy to hit the gym as much as he'd still like to, but nobody needs to know that yet.

He's glad she had the good sense not to splash his face all over a hookup app, but then she's a teacher as well. She gets it. Even though they're teaching college classes, not rowdy kids, there's still a line that really shouldn't be crossed there.

Roxy's left a couple of inches of wine at the bottom of her pint glass, and Eggsy polishes it off as he's swiping through a bevy of grinning faces, shirtless bodies, and the occasional dick pic. For all his whingeing, there are definitely worse ways to spend a rainy evening.

* * *

Harry paces up and down for a bit.

Occasionally he looks at his phone again.

He takes a sip of whisky, letting the warm smoky taste of it flood his tongue.

Then he makes the decision and takes the photo before he can talk himself out of it.

Then he sends it.

Then he pours more whisky and drinks it so quickly that the ice cubes skid down and bang against his teeth.

* * *

"Rox!" Eggsy yells after an amazed second of silence.

"What?" she yells back from the bathroom.

"Someone actually PMed me his bookcase!"

He can hear her laughing. Really it's more like a cackle. "See? It's working already!"

* * *

The chirrup of a message coming through on the app Harry downloaded in a fit of determined optimism is unexpected and makes him jump.

 _Hey OxfordsNotBrogues_ , it says. _Nice bookcase :) Is that mahogany?_

 _No_ , he types back, wondering how he's managing to keep his hands from trembling as well as he is after a good solid five minutes of staring at this young man's ridiculous washboard stomach. _Oak, but stained, so I suppose it looks like mahogany in this light._ Send. _May I ask, is this a particular interest of yours? Bookcases?_

_You mean like a furniture fetish? Haha no. I do like books though. You can tell a lot about a person from the books they keep. Can't see what yours are though._

_The bottom shelf is for notebooks. Second shelf up is an encyclopaedia series my parents gave to me for some reason when I moved away from home. I believe the rest are fiction. My cookbooks live in the kitchen._

_What sort of fiction?_

Slightly drunk and feeling stupidly brave, Harry replies, _You might look at my photographs and guess._

_Judge a book's books by its cover? ;) Ok hang on, brb._

Harry opens WhatsApp and fills the group chat with several lines of the screaming face emoji, because he feels like they really ought to know what frame of mind he's in tonight but doesn't actually want to tell them any of his business.

Then Mate Or Date pings again and he nearly drops his phone trying to reopen it to see the message.

_Hahahah have you seen those old cartoons where the wolf sees a lady wolf and his tongue rolls out like an Oscars carpet? That's me rn._

_Did you just call me a lady wolf?_

_Shut up, you know what I mean. Anyway, the verdict: you dress NICE, like really nice. You're a man of good taste. A little bit older and wiser than me. Kneejerk answer: you're into 19th century classics. You like a bit of Wilkie Collins and Henry James. Actual answer: those fucking incredible suits in your pics are your armour, you're different under it. I bet you like something genre. You like....... pulpy horror? Or old Victorian sci fi, Wells and Verne._

_Trashy old spy novels, actually. But close._

_So close! Lol. I was hoping you liked something Victorian. I could dazzle you with my smarts then._

_You've already dazzled me with your wet abdomen_ , Harry types, then deletes it because it makes him sound like a horrible dirty old man when they're talking about literature, then retypes it and hits send with his sweaty fingertip after remembering what PM_Me_Your_Bookcase just said about his own lolling tongue.

There's a pause that feels much much longer than it really is. Then:

_Shame you haven't got your kit off in any of yours._

_I'm so old. I'm 205 years old. Nobody needs me to take off my clothes._

_Bollocks, mate. You're fit as._

A hot stab of reckless bravery again: _Perhaps I'll finish this bottle of whisky and unfasten two or three buttons._

_You're making me sweat, Oxford. Upload a photo if you do._

"Oxford," Harry murmurs, and feels an absolutely absurd urge to laugh, not because anything's funny but because it's all a bit overwhelming and very, very delightful after the canker of a day he's just had. _I will._

_I have to go, early start tomorrow. Thanks for the chat though :) Ping me again any time you like, ok? And I'll be waiting for that collarbone peepshow so don't chicken out._

_What should I call you? Your username is a little unwieldy._

_Cambridge ;)_

_Goodnight, Cambridge._

_Night, Oxford._


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Cab I see?_ Eggsy says, then mutters a swear under his breath and sends, _CAN sorry my hands are sweating, lol. Will you send me a photo? Reminder: I'm still waiting on my unbuttoned shirt pic too._
> 
> The pause is even longer this time, and Eggsy's just trying to figure out how to word an apology for charging in so quickly if Oxford's happier sticking with flirty texting. Then a photo loads in the chat, and a helpless rush of goosebumps floods down the skin of his arms and the length of his spine.

_One week later_

"Heads, Harry tells us why he's walking so funny," James says, grinning like the devil and dancing a fifty pence coin nimbly over his knuckles. "Tails, he doesn't not tell us."

"But--" Hamish starts, eyes narrowed suspiciously, then shuts up and recoils as if someone just kicked his ankle under the table, which is obviously what happened because it's what always happens when someone gets in between James and some particularly succulent gossip.

"I don't see how that's any of your business," Harry says primly, or at least as primly as one can say anything while holding an electric blue curaçao margarita.

"My dear boy"--James always calls him that when he's a bit drunk or wants something or both, despite being several years younger--"are you honestly suggesting the happiness of a man's friends is an off-limits topic? What nonsense. Spill the beans, Hart."

"If we're being democratic about this," Hamish says, discreetly shifting his sore ankles to the side of his chair farthest away from James and his brutal winklepickers, "I'd rather not hear the details. That's two votes against one. Sorry."

"Unbelievable." James prods viciously with his straw at the wilted mint leaves in his mojito, somehow giving off the air of sulkily sticking his lower lip out without actually doing it. "I'm texting Alistair. Just because he's not here yet doesn't mean he doesn't get a vote."

"Vote about what?"

Harry looks around at the voice and finds Roxy there behind him, slightly bedraggled in her sweaty gym clothes but not quite so much that the staff can't turn a blind eye considering how much of her dads' wages go into the tills here. He half-stands, the manners drilled into him from before he could talk still a reflex for him, but Roxy kisses his cheek in greeting and pushes gently on his shoulders to steer him back into his seat.

"Hi, Harry. What's going on?"

"Your father's being a bit of a prick."

"That's the price of his friendship, sadly." She's laughing, though; she understands the dynamics of the group as well as any of them, being their occasional fifth member. She leans across the table to kiss Hamish and James too, then drapes her tracksuit jacket over her chair and steals a sip of everyone's cocktail in turn. "Alistair's getting a round in, so drink up. What are we voting on?"

"Whether or not we need to hear all the colourful details of Harry's love life," Hamish says wearily. "Please say no."

"Can't be that painful, can it?" She shuffles her chair in to let Alistair get past to his usual place beside James, deftly swiping her gin fizz off his tray before it even touches the table. "Didn't you two share a flat when you were my age? You must've heard the worst already."

Harry pats Hamish's arm in what he hopes is a comforting sort of way, though he's not very practised at this sort of thing. "I did apologise on several occasions for my atrocious behaviour during those two years, but I was very young and very, very handsome. Really it couldn't be helped."

"Thank god for earplugs and solid Victorian masonry, that's all I can say." Hamish chugs back half his Mai Tai like he can wash the memory down with it and does his best to change the subject, but whatever he's trying to change it to just fizzles out like a wet sparkler against James' second attack.

"Spill," he demands again, poking Harry in the back of the hand with the pointy end of a paper umbrella to get his attention. "Don't think I won't turn this into a chant that travels all the way around this damn bar like a Mexican wave."

So Harry spills, because he'll get no peace until he does, and also a bit because he thrives on attention almost as much as James does, at least when he's a couple of cocktails down the specials board. "Well, it's honestly not much of a story. We chatted for a few days on one of those apps. He was very enthusiastic about sending me photos of his, you know, essentials."

"Good, good," James says approvingly. "Sample the merchandise before you buy."

"Then he invited me over, the deed was done, and I went home again."

"'The deed'?" Alistair repeats, seeming to smirk faintly the way he always manages to do without moving his lips somehow. "You're not making it sound very exciting."

"Well..." It wasn't, that's why. Getting fucked absolutely silly by a handsome forty-something Spanish sommelier with an enviable lack of a gag reflex is definitely among the top five experiences of Harry's whole year so far, but then again that's not really saying a lot. "This is why I didn't want to tell you. It was just sex, I'm afraid."

James looks extremely unimpressed. "If it's _just sex_ , dear boy, you're doing it with the wrong person." His gaze goes molten-hot for a moment, lingering on Alistair's face until Roxy wrinkles her nose and escapes with Hamish to have a smoke outside away from the horrors of parental affection. "Is this what retirement is, then? One mediocre shag with a stranger? Lord above. I'm going to work until I'm ninety if that's all I've got to look forward to."

"Unless Chester's got any more grandsons," Alistair says, and thoroughly ruins the mood as he so often delights in doing.

* * *

Eggsy's half-heartedly looking through his abandoned PhD research when Roxy gets home, but he hurriedly shuffles all the loose pages of notes back into his ringbinder and shoves it under the sofa before she's finished struggling with the stiff front door lock because he's not in the mood for sympathy, not even Roxy's no-nonsense, practical brand of sympathy.

"How's the Old Farts Club?" he asks when comes through to the living room.

She kicks her trainers off and joins him on the sofa, helping herself to a wooden forkful of cold chips and saveloy from the remnants of his dinner. "Nice to see them, but even nicer to get away. All they ever talk about is sex!"

"To be fair, that's pretty much all we ever talk about too."

"Yes, but you're not my dads or my dads' friends. Plus at least some of it's in the context of, you know, literature and social history and whatnot. It's not just endless gossip and innuendo."

"Spose you don't wanna see the dick pics I got sent today off the app, then."

"Not particularly," Roxy says, pulling a _yuck_ face as she's sliding the last piece of saveloy into her mouth. "I'm more than happy to interact with them in person, but blurry iPhone pictures don't really do it for me. Haven't you had any more bookcases?"

"Nope. Just that one."

"Pity."

"I dunno, I'm alright with the dick avalanche if I'm honest. Get enough of books at work."

"Oh, speaking of!" Roxy sits up a bit, unravelling her hair from the plaits she wears to work out and finger-combing it all loose around her shoulders. "I told Dad's friend he should come to the open day tomorrow. He's retired and I think he's bored out of his mind, it might do him good to pick up an evening class or something when term starts. I'll introduce you. And..." She hesitates for a moment, looking faintly pink about the cheeks. "Hamish might come too. Might. And if you wanted to, you know, wax lyrical about how great my classes are to him, and maybe urge him to sign up for something, I wouldn't stop you."

"I _seeeee_ ," Eggsy says slowly, nudging her, grinning his most maddening taunting grin until she elbows him back and gets up, juggling her bruised dignity with her urge to laugh it off. "The literature class or the yoga one?"

"Just shut up. I'm going to bed."

Really he should be thinking about turning in as well, because it's past midnight and they're supposed to be at the college for half seven to help set up - but a late-night chat with the bookcase guy has become a part of his routine over the last week, and he feels weirdly like going to bed without saying goodnight to him will end up feeling worse than a bit of tiredness in the morning.

_Hey Oxford._

The reply is almost instantaneous, making Eggsy press his hot phone screen to his idiot grin as though he needs to hide it from someone watching even though he's alone. _Good evening, Cambridge._

_Was it?? A good evening, I mean._

_Yes, I suppose so. I saw some old friends. Now I'm at home putting my pyjamas on and drinking a last nightcap._

_What colour?_

_Sort of dark amber. You know, the usual brandy colour._

_Lol ok don't tell me then :P_

_Blue_ , Oxford replies after a minute. _Royal blue silk with cream piping._

_Get you, silk pjs!_

_Might I ask what you're wearing?_

_Sexy lie or unsexy truth?_

_Truth._

_Cut off trackie bottoms and a uni tshirt._

_Which college did you go to at Cambridge?_

_Clare._

Another long pause, then Oxford says, _Sounds pretty sexy to me. It's a very handsome building._

_What, you've got an architecture fetish to go with my bookcase boner?_

And another pause. Eggsy's forehead and cheeks feel prickly with warmth; he can't help wondering what's going on at the other end of this weird internet connection.

 _Well, I'm thinking about your boner now_ , Oxford says eventually, and Eggsy muffles a startled, abrupt little giggle against the back of his hand because _boner_ doesn't feel like a very Oxford kind of word and it tickles him. _So, thank you for that when I'm just about to go to bed._

 _Idk, I think bedtime is probably the optimal time for thinking about strangers' boners._ Then quickly, before he can talk himself out of it, Eggsy adds, _I'm thinking about yours too. In your swish blue silk jammies. Bet they feel fucking brilliant when you're hard in them._

_Better than tracksuit shorts, certainly._

_Cab I see?_ Eggsy says, then mutters a swear under his breath and sends, _CAN sorry my hands are sweating, lol. Will you send me a photo? Reminder: I'm still waiting on my unbuttoned shirt pic too._

The pause is even longer this time, and Eggsy's just trying to figure out how to word an apology for charging in so quickly if Oxford's happier sticking with flirty texting. Then a photo loads in the chat, and a helpless rush of goosebumps floods down the skin of his arms and the length of his spine.

The sapphire gleam of the silk fills most of the screen at either side, but the centre is a narrow V of tanned skin from neck to breastbone where the buttons are obligingly open, and resting there against the fabric is Oxford's left hand: huge and elegant, long thick gorgeous fingers wrinkled at the knuckles, neat polished nails, the dark fuzz of hair on his wrist where it's emerging from the loose cuff.

And then a second photo joins the first: Oxford's right hand this time, balancing a brandy snifter against his thigh beside the unmistakable outline of his half-hard cock distorting the fabric. There's a glimpse of his bared tummy too above his waistband at the top edge of the picture, a dark line of hair disappearing above the drawstring. Eggsy gets a crystal-clear vision in his head of Oxford unfastening the rest of his shirt buttons and stripping it off before taking the second photo, feeling just as prickly-tingly-hot as Eggsy does now.

 _Literally drooling_ , he types, fumbling on the keyboard and trusting autocorrect not to fuck him over for once. Flatmate rules say no sex in the living room, including wanking, so he takes his phone through to his bedroom and gets under the duvet, then kicks it away because the heat is suffocating.

_I'm glad you approve. Would it be too forward of me to ask for one in return?_

Eggsy's got his hand inside his shorts now, fingers slipping through the first drops of wet and slicking the head of his cock. _Arty fucking gorgeous softcore one like yours?_ he types awkwardly with his left hand. _Or a pic of what I'm actually doing rn?_

_Anything. Please._

He clicks the lamp on, rolls the dimmer switch to a warm golden glow that's far less offensive than his phone flash would be, and attempts to construct something in the middle: his t-shirt dragged halfway up his torso to show what remains of his attempt at abs, his thighs spread wide enough to stretch the fabric of his trackies, and the waistband nudged just low enough to display the top few inches of his cock. He's turned on enough now to be dripping languidly down over the place between his thumb and forefinger where he's gripping himself, and quickly snaps a picture with it glistening in the lamplight.

Send.

 _God_ , Oxford texts back. _Good lord._

_You like that?_

_Yes._

_Want to see me come?_

_Yes, please._

It happens with a speed that would be mortifying if Oxford were actually here, but he's not and that makes it exhilarating, like a race: knowing he's wound up and waiting, wanting to give it to him _now_. Eggsy finds the lube in his drawer and slicks up his hand, scrolling back to the bright blue silk pyjamas and the tantalising glimpses of skin and wanking himself off with all the artless enthusiasm of a teenager cranking one out to something ridiculous on Pornhub, only it's not even porn, it's a fucking glorious, beautiful, extraordinary tease.

He keeps just enough of his wits about him at the end to aim and, muffling his whimpers behind his pressed lips, he comes on his belly and over his fingers, a few rogue splashes wetting the hem of his t-shirt where it's slipped down a bit too far.

 _Since you asked nicely_ , he says when he's finished pulsing and trembling, and sends the photo.

* * *

Slightly shellshocked by the evening's turn of events, Harry lies sweating and panting in the middle of his bed with a spreading wet patch on the front of his pyjama trousers.

 _Clare Cambridge_ , he types when his fingers are working again, _you are fucking exquisite._

_:) Send one back. If you want._

_I'm embarrassed._

_Why? Sexting?_

_Not sexting in and of itself. Sexting with the unfortunate conclusion of finishing in my trousers like an uncontrollable schoolboy._

_Oh my god_

_Apologies._

_NO no way don't apologise for that. I still want to see. I mean if you don't mind. I would really like to. Did you touch yourself?_

Harry gulps down the last of his brandy, pressing his hand to his thumping heart. _Yes. Through my pyjamas. You know, you were absolutely right about the benefits of silk on a hard cock._

_I'm fucking dying haha that's SO HOT. Please send it. Please. Please._

"I'm going to have a heart attack," Harry says out loud into the dim, hot air of his bedroom, voice trembling. "I'm going to die."

 _Since you asked nicely_ , he says in the app chat instead, and sends a picture of his stained, rumpled trousers.

_Gorgeous. You got no idea how fucking hot that is to me. You just jizzing in your kecks like that. Fuck!!!_

_It hasn't happened for decades._

_It fucking should. Omfg._

_:)_

_Thanks for an amazing night. I have to go to sleep._

_Likewise. And I shall treasure this picture. Goodnight, Clare Cambridge._

_Night, Oxford._


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Could I interest you in the wine tasting course?" says the smiley woman behind the desk, holding out a leaflet.
> 
> "Does that involve putting wine in your mouth and then _spitting it out_?" Harry asks. "No thank you, madam."

"You look awful," Roxy murmurs, surreptitiously passing Eggsy a tube of concealer like it's a drugs handover. "Go to the loo and sort yourself out before everyone gets here."

It's a shade too pale for his skin tone, really, but better than nothing and takes the edge away from his undereye circles enough that the frame of his glasses manages to disguise the rest fairly well. The faint scent of it is a weird and uncomfortable memory trigger, though, rocketing him back in time a decade to when he used to sneak into his mum's room to steal hers before school sometimes if Dean had been in a particularly arsey mood the night before. If he turned up to lessons with a black eye or fresh knuckle bruises on his jaw, there were a couple of wanker teachers who'd assume he'd been fighting some other kid and give him detention on the spot, not bothering to consider whether the problem might be wider than just rowdy playground scuffles.

He examines his reflection critically for a minute, making various last-minute adjustments to his styled hair and the knot of his tie before pulling a couple of stupid faces at himself, trying to make himself laugh and relax a bit. It kind of works. It never really works all the way. Impostor syndrome is still a stubborn fucker to keep down sometimes, even with a master's degree from Cambridge and an office of his own.

"Thanks," he whispers to Roxy when he returns, palming the tube back to her. "Don't need to say you look as fucking perfect as ever."

She strokes her ponytailed hair primly. "You too could be an eleven out of ten if you actually went to sleep at a decent hour instead of sitting up half the night on the Xbox."

"If you must know, I was actually sending come shots to a stranger."

Roxy gives him a dead look. "Hope you washed your hands before you made my toast this morning, then."

"Bit of extra protein, does you good - _ow_ ," he yelps, laughing, when she pinches him sharply on the arm and goes to finish setting up her stand.

* * *

Harry's not sure he would have bothered, actually, only Hamish seems to have slotted himself into the mother hen gap he seems to think is missing in Harry's life and turned up on his doorstep with Alistair as backup, practically frogmarching him to the car.

"I hope we're going to the seaside," Harry says as Alistair's easing the car backwards up the mews, even though he knows exactly where they're heading.

"We're going to support your goddaughter," Hamish tells him, searching through the glove box for an Ainsworth College prospectus and passing it back between the seats for Harry to look at. "Be good and you can have a Happy Meal on the way home."

"Isn't James coming?"

"It's his turn to work Saturday," Alistair says, meeting Harry's eyes briefly in the rearview mirror before flicking back to the road and the sluggish morning traffic. "He's absolutely livid he's being left out, Roxy said they've hired bouncy castles for people's kids and you know what he's like. I'm hoping to talk Hamish into a cheeky bounce so I can send a photo and ruin his day."

"No," Hamish says flatly, but he always says no about everything and it rarely seems to stick, especially when it's about something that Harry very very much wants to see now the image has been planted in his head.

Harry ends up using the prospectus as a fan when someone farts and refuses to own up to it, so he doesn't actually get around to reading any of it before they arrive at the college and park an upsetting distance away from the entrance gate. It looks more like a village fête than a college open day, not that he's ever actually been to a college open day before: helium balloons tied to the railings on long ribbons; collections of deckchairs and open areas where people have spread out picnic blankets; at least a dozen food trucks selling fish and chips or burgers or ice cream or candy floss; the two promised bouncy castles as well as a _bouncy slide_ , just to rub poor James' nose in it even more. He'd be right on that if he were here, given half a chance, and then charm whoever's in charge so thoroughly when they came to tell him off that they'd probably offer him another go for free.

He checks his watch and sadly discovers that it's only 11:42, eighteen minutes too early to start drinking by the arbitrary rule he set himself now he's got nothing else to do with his days, unless of course they can find a van somewhere on the field that's doling out Bloody Marys and Buck's Fizz which are obviously exempt.

"Cup of tea and a sit down?" he asks instead. That should waste a good twenty minutes at least, then he can get a Pimm's without feeling like he should be in a meeting about it.

Hamish doesn't look very impressed. "We've only just got here."

"I'm retired. This is the pace of my life now."

"I'm going to find Roxy," Alistair says. "Go and talk to someone about flower arranging or whatever it is you want to do, I'll meet up with you later.

Hamish looks torn for a moment between following Alistair or heading over to the information tables with Harry, then he chooses Alistair like the absolute traitor of a best friend he is. Harry almost feels a nasty flashback - all the times he was dragged out to the Batcave in the early eighties and then left to fend for himself when Hamish flailed into the more enthusiastic sections of the dancefloor that Harry was too afraid of being accidentally punched in the beautiful New Romantic face to go near - but he mentally tramples it down and heads for the nearest tea van.

Luckily, there seems to be some kind of argument going on between the proprietor and the man being served in front of Harry. Rubbernecking on someone else's drama is always a nice little adrenaline kick. He keeps his face blank, the skill carefully honed after decades of practise, and listens.

"Can't I just I.O.U. this round and give you the two quid next time I'm over? You know I'll be back in an hour."

"Nope," says the grim-faced jobsworth behind the counter. He looks like a Mitchell brother, but the runt of the litter. "No cash, no char."

"So I've got to walk all the way back over the other side of the field, get ambushed by a million questions I have to answer, pick up my wallet, come all the way back here, and only then I'm allowed my now lukewarm tea, despite having my college ID right here and despite you knowing full well I work here and I'll be back buying tea off you every hour til six o'clock tonight like I've been doing every hour since eight this morning?"

"No cash, no char," Runty Mitchell says again, this time flashing a smug little smile that reminds Harry of the traffic wardens he's seen salivating over a meter with only a minute left on the clock.

He's bored now. This is not the level of drama he was hoping for.

"Please," he says, "let me pay."

The man in front of him turns round, a surprised smile on his face. "Oh, no, you don't have to do that. I mean, thank you, but-"

"Nonsense," Harry interrupts, finding a two pound coin in his wallet and stepping forward to set it down on the metal counter with just the slightest bit of unnecessary force. "Our friend here seems to need it more than I do."

That makes the young man's grin widen and somehow change in tone from politeness to the companionship of sudden unexpected us-against-them, even on a scale this small. "Well, thanks very much. Next one's on me if I see you around, alright?"

He picks up the two steaming paper cups, nods a goodbye, and weaves his way through the crowd and out of sight.

Harry decides to go for the Pimm's after all, time be damned, for two reasons: firstly, he doesn't quite trust the Mitchell not to spit in his tea now, and secondly, the young man in the Clark Kent glasses and the Wonder Woman tie was very, very, very, _very_ handsome, and that sort of life experience deserves to be considered and savoured for a while over a drink.

* * *

"Pretend you're talking to me," Eggsy says in a low voice as he's handing Roxy her tea.

She looks at him like he's gone a bit wrong. "I am talking to you."

"No, I mean..." He takes a couple of steps, twisting their positions slightly. "Look up where the deckchairs are. Can you see?"

"Yes?"

"Guy in the beige cardi with legs nine miles long."

"You mean Harry?"

Eggsy feels himself frown slightly. "Harry?"

"My godfather. He used to work with Dad and Alistair."

Well, that's unfortunate. "Shit," he says dismally. "I just almost fucking swallowed my tongue talking to him for like five seconds, I was gonna delegate wingman duties to see if he's here with a wife or something or he's fair game."

"There's something deeply, deeply wrong with you," Roxy tells him, putting the hand not holding her tea firmly between Eggsy's shoulder blades to nudge him back to his stand. "I was going to see if he'd be interested in any of your classes, but I don't think I can bear to now I know you're thinking about his _legs_."

"I put my posh voice on and everything. Didn't mean to, I just panicked."

Roxy shoves him again. "GO."

* * *

A large Pimm's and a small glass of almost-passable Riesling later, Harry's halfway around the course information stands and against all odds actually quite enjoying himself, although that's partly to do with the number of dogs people have brought along with them. An effervescent little terrier is bravely trying to hump the leg of an extremely aloof Alsatian at one of the tables while their oblivious owners look at leaflets, which is enjoyably amusing for a few minutes until he realises the leaflets are about sewing classes. Then his mood sours and he walks on, still bitter about losing the only job he's ever had.

A language might be interesting. He lingers for a while by the tables, picks up a leaflet about the Spanish course in fond memory of the sommelier the other night, and wanders on.

Cookery? He can cook reasonably well already. One of the specialisms, then - making sugarpaste cake decorations, or sushi, or the theory of molecular gastronomy?

"Could I interest you in the wine tasting course?" says the smiley woman behind the desk, holding out a leaflet.

"Does that involve putting wine in your mouth and then _spitting it out_?" Harry asks. "No thank you, madam."

English is next and that feels much more up his street, except that while he's immensely proud of Roxy and enjoys her company very much he still hasn't quite recovered from offering to read her master's dissertation before asking what it was about. There's something absurdly traumatic about reading fifteen thousand words on pre-20th century erotica written by your goddaughter, never mind having to give helpful feedback as well. Still, he lurks by the stand for a while just eavesdropping on everyone's questions to her for the simple pleasure of then getting to listen to her answers: she's eloquent and witty and absolutely captivating when she's talking about something she loves as much as books, with the result of having to send someone inside to grab another box of course leaflets because the stacks on the table are running so low.

"What do you think?" Hamish asks, sneaking up behind Harry and making him jump. "Recovered from the dissertation yet?"

"I just accidentally remembered that on my own and now you've made it worse," Harry snaps at him, but there's no real annoyance in it, they've known each other far too long. "She's wonderful though, isn't she?"

"Mm," Hamish mumbles vaguely. Harry gives him a suspicious look, but his face is carefully blank. Unluckily for Hamish, the two of them share the same method of hiding their emotions, which means they're the only people in the world who can read each other perfectly every time.

"Unbelievable," Harry says, staring at Hamish in something that might be horror if he weren't so secretly impressed by displays of things like 'reckless optimism' and 'pretending a quarter-century age gap means nothing'. "You're a fool if you even try. She'd eat you alive."

"Do you think so?"

There's absolutely no reason for him to sound so pathetic and wistful about it. Harry pats him encouragingly on the shoulder, immediately neutralises the show of support by threatening to tell James, then moves on to the next stand.

It's staffed by a six year old child in a full suit of plastic armour.

"Hello," Harry says, more in surprise than greeting.

She stares defiantly back at him, sizing him up, and then raises her plastic sword like she's about to vault over the table and charge him. "If you put fifty p in the charity box"--she taps it with her sword--"I can tell you a Cool Fact." He can actually hear the capital letters somehow.

"If I put a pound in, may I have two?"

That seems to stump her for a moment, then she sidles over to the other side of the table and tugs on someone's hand.

The someone turns around. He's wearing Clark Kent glasses and a Wonder Woman tie.

"How many fifty p's make a pound?"

"Two, babe."

"So I can tell two Cool Facts if he gives me one pound?"

"Yeah, that's right." He glances up at Harry then, and his smile spreads a fraction wider when he recognises him. "Oh, hello again. Thinking about a history course?"

"Yes," Harry says, which is a barefaced lie, or at least it was. He's definitely thinking about it now. "Here's your pound," he adds to the tiny knight, handing it to her so she can drop it through the slot.

"One. Sometimes Ancient Egypt people made their _cats_ into mummies!" she says breathlessly, like she's speeding through something she remembered so she doesn't forget it halfway. "Two. Ancient Egypt people wrote in pictures not letters! They're called hieroglyphs. No more Cool Facts unless you got more money."

"I'm afraid I don't have any more change on me," Harry says apologetically. "But they were very, very Cool Facts. Thank you very much."

She beams at him, pleased, and runs off to join some other kids turning cartwheels on the grass behind the stand.

"I'm Gary Unwin," the man says, offering his hand across the table. "And that's my sister Daisy. She's obsessed with Egypt just now, so they're the only Cool Facts anyone's getting today."

"Harry Hart. Pleasure to meet you properly."

"So..." Gary spreads his arms out either side like he's saying _take your pick_. "Anything in particular you're interested in? We've got a series of lectures and discussion groups just for fun, no qualifications at the end. Or a bachelor's degree if you want something more formal." He finds one of the leaflets on the desk and opens it up, folding it back on itself and handing it to Harry with the relevant part displayed. "People keep asking which I recommend, but I really can't say. It comes down to personal choice. If you want to learn a little bit about lot of different people and events, go with the discussion groups. Or if you want to go deeper, obviously the degree gives you a tighter focus on a few key areas."

"Deeper and tighter," Harry echoes stupidly, and not quite as under his breath as he meant because Gary's eyes crinkle up with suppressed laughter for a moment.

"Yeah, it's pretty satisfying if you like that kind of thing." The professional mask slips neatly back on. "Have a look on the website, there's a link on the back of there. You can sign up online. Or I'm happy to answer any questions you've got right now."

Question one: _Am I honestly considering getting a degree just because the young man teaching it has a very handsome jawline and pretty eyes?_

Question two: _Is this what a mid-life crisis feels like?_

"No questions," Harry says blandly. "Thank you for the information, it certainly sounds more interesting than Wedding Cake Decorating For Beginners."

* * *

By the time they've finished packing up and go home, Eggsy and Roxy are too exhausted for anything but beans on toast and the last half of Die Hard they find on the telly while mindlessly channel-hopping. They don't even speak for an hour, just eat and watch and doze a bit in the comfortable silence they've cultivated since uni, stretched out top and tail on the sofa.

"Think it went well?" he says eventually when the credits start.

Roxy yawns widely enough to make her jaw crack. "Well enough. It's always a nice day even if nobody bothers turning up when term starts. But they will." Then she starts poking her toes into his armpit accusingly. "Please don't try to have sex with Harry. He changed my nappies when I was a baby. It's too weird."

Eggsy grabs her ankle to drop her digging at him and considers for a moment making some kind of counter-accusation about her moony eyes at her dads' other friend, but it's not worth the certain scuffle that would follow.

He finds his phone instead where it's slipped down the back of the sofa cushion, opens the app, and shows her the photo of Oxford's semi in his fancy silk pyjamas, then the wet spot where he came without even taking them down.

"Oh, very nice," Roxy says approvingly, zooming right in not on Oxford's cock but on his massive handsome hand clutching the brandy glass. "Lovely fingers."

"The miracles of technology, hey. Don't need to have sex with anyone when you're getting sent photos like this."

"Are you going to meet up?"

"I dunno," he says. He doesn't say _I want to but not yet, because I like talking to him, I like flirting, I like the smutty photos, I like the thrill of it being a stranger whose face I haven't seen and whose name I don't know, and I don't want to just fuck him like I fuck anyone else who looks at me right and lose all of that_. But maybe she understands anyway, because she pats his ankle in a vaguely comforting way and tells him he's an idiot, which in their particular friendship is the same thing as a hug.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _You like being called sir? I can do that. Please show me your cock, sir. Please let me see it. Please. I'll get on my knees for you right now and fucking pray._
> 
> _7/10_
> 
> _So hard for you already. Just seeing you in your trousers like that. If you show me I bet I'll be able to feel the shape of it in my mouth just from wanting it so much._
> 
> _6/10_
> 
> Laughing breathlessly, Eggsy types _SIR_ in capital letters, copies it, and pastes it until it fills the chat screen.
> 
> _Now you're just being cheeky._

When Harry's phone buzzes, he checks it assuming it's going to be an "on my way" message from Alistair, who had to stay behind and clear up the workshop after Chester's idle little bastard grandson left it in a state. And that's how he ends up showering the table in a mouthful of Negroni sipped at the wrong time.

_Eating a foot long hot dog and I wish it was your nob._

"Harry! For fuck's sake," Hamish exclaims, staring in bewildered horror at the spatter on his shirt cuff like it's blood instead of Campari. "Was that really necessary?"

"You be the judge," Harry manages through his coughing fit, sliding his phone across the table for them to see.

"God, I miss those days," James says in a mournful voice. He slyly tries to scroll further up the chat screen, but Harry snatches his phone back and places it face-down on the table in front of him because he can't even imagine the ribbing he'll get if they see the photos. "Marriage is lovely, but I've not had a text like this in years. Who is he?"

"I don't know his name." It sounds incredibly seedy and strange now he's said that out loud. "I've been calling him Cambridge, or Clare, sometimes, because it's quicker to type. His old college."

"Studying what?" Hamish asks, reaching into Harry's pocket to steal his handkerchief and attempt to mop himself dry.

Feeling dismally stupid now, Harry says, "I don't know," and the other two exchange a look: James gleeful, Hamish like he's at the end of his patience-tether.

"You don't know his name or his background, but he knows you well enough not only to associate your crotch with phallic food, but to tell you about it?"

"Yes, thank you, James, I'm quite aware how ridiculous it is," Harry snaps. He gulps back the rest of his drink, not entirely sure why he's so angry suddenly. Thinks maybe it's because these occasional chats and occasional plummets into exchanging obscene photos have been such an unexpectedly fun part of his life lately, something beautifully uncomplicated at a time when it feels like the whole world he's learned to navigate over the last fifty-odd years is collapsing around him, and now they're making it feel grubby simply by shining a torch on it when he'd been perfectly content in his deliberate ignorance with the lights off.

"Harry," Hamish says quietly, holding out the neatly-folded and now slightly stained handkerchief for him to tuck back into his pocket. "Tell us about him. If you want to. What _do_ you know? Age? Favourite curry?"

"Lamb rogan josh," Harry says gratefully, glad there's at least _something_. "He mentioned that once. I don't know his age. Younger than me. Twenties or thirties, I imagine." Now he's started the memories are flowing like tap water; he actually knows a lot more than he thought he did, although when he lines everything up like dominoes it's still laughably sparse. "He implied once that he enjoys Victorian literature. Perhaps that's what he studied. I know he likes to read. He asks for pictures of my bookshelves sometimes, then asks about the books. And he recommends things he thinks I might enjoy. He survives on energy drinks, there's usually a can in the background somewhere when he sends photos. I think he's tired a lot. He doesn't seem to sleep very well, his messages come at all hours. He's funny and kind and he makes me laugh and he makes me feel strange, here"--Harry presses his hand to his stomach--"like I've missed a step at the top of an escalator and the split-second of not knowing whether I'm going to tumble down is stretching out to infinity. I like him so, so much. And I know it's absurd, and I wish you wouldn't tease, but I know I can't stop you. So one of you might at least buy me another drink if you're going to carry on."

James goes, patting him companionably on the shoulder as he squeezes past to get to the bar. Hamish just sits there, head slightly cocked to one side like a bird, studying Harry's face intently as though there might be something written in secret code there if he could only focus his eyes in the right way to make the pores line up.

"And he has the most beautiful cock," Harry says a bit desperately, blurting it out as soon as James is out of earshot because he's really not in the mood for any more taunting and feels like Hamish might not bother putting in the effort if it's only the two of them. "It belongs in an art gallery, on a plinth, behind bulletproof glass and a red velvet rope."

Merlin looks vaguely pained. "I've already listened to this entire spiel almost word for word every time some painted dandy at the Camden Palace caught your eye in 1983."

"I know. I'm sorry. Please feel free to tell me all about your vagina hobby should you ever feel the need."

"I like how you worded it in a way that makes absolutely certain I'll never, ever tell you a thing."

They both shut up when James gets back with a tray full of extra dirty martinis and apology slippery nipple shots. "On my honour, I'll behave," he promises, clinking the rim of his glass off Harry's to seal the deal. "To you, and your internet toy boy. May your wifi signals always be as strong as your affections. Cheers."

"God, I wish I could hate you," Harry mutters, and downs his shot.

* * *

_I'm in the toilet cubicle at the pub, hard as bloody granite. Unfortunately I couldn't find any mustard packets for you. I hope that's all right._

Roxy's head shoots up and her eyes go narrow. "What are you giggling at?"

"Nothing," Eggsy says, hiding behind a cushion for a second trying to control himself. "Cat videos."

"You absolute liar. It's your fancy man again, isn't it?"

 _Send me a pic?_ Eggsy texts, then glances up at Roxy and does his Shrug Emoji impression until she rolls her eyes and goes back to her book.

The picture comes through a few seconds later, a mouthwatering bulge behind the fly of neat grey trousers.

"I'm gonna turn in," Eggsy says, faking a huge yawn. "Getting late."

Roxy looks pointedly at the clock on the bookcase, the hands of which are indicating 9:21pm, then at Eggsy for a long moment, then she leans over to find her headphones in her bag and plugs them firmly into her ears before going back to her book.

Even before he's fully closed his bedroom door behind himself he's tapping in another message: _How much do I have to beg before you let me see it?_

_You haven't begged at all. Perhaps you could start, and I'll tell you when you're getting warmer._

_I want it so bad. Please let me see._

_3/10._

_Please, Mr Oxford, sir._

The reply takes a few seconds longer to come through this time, and it doesn't have a full stop at the end, which Eggsy thinks probably means Oxford is getting a little bit ruffled. Good.

_Warmer_

_You like being called sir? I can do that. Please show me your cock, sir. Please let me see it. Please. I'll get on my knees for you right now and fucking pray._

_7/10_

_So hard for you already. Just seeing you in your trousers like that. If you show me I bet I'll be able to feel the shape of it in my mouth just from wanting it so much._

_6/10_

Laughing breathlessly, Eggsy types _SIR_ in capital letters, copies it, and pastes it until it fills the chat screen.

_Now you're just being cheeky._

_Out of the two of us who's the one hard as a fucker in a public loo? Sounds pretty cheeky to me._

_I suppose you have a point there._ This one comes accompanied by a photo, so closely focused that Eggsy can see the individual grey threads of the fabric. The waistband buttonhole is still warped open, still holding the shape of the button that's no longer passed through it.

_Thank you, sir *_* Please please show me your cock. I want to see if it's as fucking huge and gorgeous as your hands are. I want to see it and tell you exactly which bit I want to put my mouth on first. PLEASE sir, I'll do anything you want, please please show me._

_Anything?_

_YES SIR is this progress?? Are we getting somewhere? I will honest to god do anything you ask if you just get your cock out your trousers and let me pretend it's down my neck instead. Fuck I'm burning up just imagining it, I'm so fucking hard rn. Please!_

_Will you send me a video?_

_Of me wanking?_

_Yes, please._

_Comeshot and all?_

_Yes, please._

_Ok but it's going to be three seconds long, I honestly wasn't exaggerating how far gone I am just wishing you were fucking my face rn_

He holds out around a minute and a half in the end, which he's reasonably pleased with considering how shredded all his nerves are feeling. Mindful of Roxy just two walls away, even with her headphones in, he tries his best to keep as quiet as possible, but between the teasing and the promise of a dick pic he actually wants to see for a change he can't quite manage complete silence, only an increasingly frantic set of wordless, desperate, throaty little moans until he comes shivering and gasping over his twitching stomach.

Send.

He lies there on top of his covers still pulling slowly at his cock, drawing out the last lazy drips of come and trying to catch his breath, only he can't quite manage to because the anticipation of maybe actually getting to see under Oxford's clothes is a little bit overwhelming.

His phone pings, and he wipes his messy hands off on a tissue before tapping the message open.

_Good god. Thank you. That was dazzling. And those noises you made, christ._

_:)_

_I suppose it's only fair to reciprocate._

_:)))))_

_Not a video, I'm afraid. I imagine something of the mood would be lost if somebody walked in. But you've certainly earned your photograph if you really want one._

The photo that follows is like the Da Vinci of dick pics, meticulously framed and even tinted slightly with a filter presumably to take away the harshness of the overhead fluorescent lights. Oxford's gorgeous ridiculous hands suggested, or at least gave hope, that he'd have a cock to match, and the visual confirmation that yes he absolutely is packing a monster behind those luxury threads makes Eggsy's mouth feel tingly and dry before it floods with saliva again when he imagines running the flat of his tongue up the full length of it, lapping up the sliding drips of come and swallowing it all away. Sinking reverently to his knees as promised and drawing the soaking wet head of Oxford's cock right to the back of his throat so he can wait for it to start getting hard again and feel every single slide and pulse and throb of it instead of air.

He can't quite figure out how to say any of that, and settles on sending a simple, to-the-point, extremely heartfelt, _jfc just choke me with it, this is how I want to die. Fuck!!!_

_I have to go before my friends send a search party._

_Lol ok. I'm going to sleep for nine solid hours and hope I dream about sucking you raw for every single second of it._.

_I can't quite believe you're real. People like you don't happen to people like me._

_Except apparently we do, sometimes._

_Apparently so, and I'm very, very thankful. Goodnight, Cambridge._

_Night, babe x_


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Tell me something I don't know about you._
> 
> The reply comes almost straight away and makes Harry burn his tongue on his coffee. _Ummm well I nearly became a pro gymnast. Gave it up as a kid after I broke my leg, but my flatmate got me into yoga at uni. I'm pretty bendy ;)_
> 
> _Good god. I'm 52 years old and would probably snap like a breadstick if I took a step slightly longer than usual._
> 
> _Well that's no good, how am I meant to ride you like a stallion if you're going to crumble under me?_
> 
> _Ride me like a gentle seaside donkey._
> 
> Cambridge replies with about fifteen crying laughing emojis and _fuck you I'm at WORK, don't make me laugh! Talk later x_

_Oxford, can I ask you something?_

_Of course._

_Do you want to meet up in person?_

_Are you asking to meet up, or asking if I want to?_

Eggsy smiles at that, lying completely spent on his bed with come all over his stomach and feeling far too pleasantly lethargic to start mopping himself down just yet. _Good catch :)_

There's a long pause and several cycles of the pulsing little icon that lights up on the app's chat screen when someone's typing and deleting without sending.

 _Yes and no_ is the eventual answer.

_Same. You want to talk it out or just carry on with the dick pics a bit longer? ___

_Yours are marvellous dick pics. I do think there ought to be a less flippant name for them, though. They're so good. Penis portraits._

_Master pieces._

_Oh for god's sake._

Eggsy takes a photo of his extended middle finger, the tip of it resting in the little puddle of cooling come on his stomach, and sends it.

 _To answer your question_ , Oxford replies, _yes, I would very very much like to be within sucking distance of that fingertip tonight, and indeed every other part of you._

_But?_

Another few minutes of the typing-not-sending icon. Then a wall of text that Eggsy reads four times in a row, feeling the hot thrill of reawakened arousal tingling the hair on the back of his neck: _But it's gorgeous fun, isn't it? Talking like this. The freedom of being able to say things one would never say in person, at least not this soon. I feel daring around you. I realise it's all smoke and mirrors and there's nothing daring at all about sending these sweaty little texts at all hours of the day and night, but you must understand that 'comfortably boring' is my natural state out in the real world. The things I feel able to say to you and ask of you are things I can't imagine ever saying to the men I actually meet. It's very strange. It feels as though there's a safety barrier still standing between us, while at the same time I can't pretend that I don't feel closer to you than I've felt to anybody in a terribly long time._

_Fuck I'm glad you said you're still hooking up with other people! Me too. I didn't want to make a big song and dance about it or anything in case you were like "??? we're not an item, why do you think I'd care?" But then also I've been feeling weird about not saying it because, you know, pretty much everything you just said. I just like you so much it's fucking unreal, you know? And yeah I'm having the time of my life saving this little library of the world's most fucking incredible cock shots on my phone, and yeah thinking about getting that thing inside my face is basically the screensaver on my brain every time my mind goes blank these days. And I don't know, maybe that's exactly why I haven't pushed for a hookup yet._

_Delayed gratification?_

_YES. My flatmate thinks I'm nuts, she keeps saying at least meet up for a drink or something bc we could be fucking soulmates but you can't tell something like that unless you're face to face._

_Dick to dick._

_Oh my god hahahahahah_

_For what it's worth I don't believe in soulmates, and if I did mine would probably be my poor long-suffering best friend._

_Lol same_

_But if we call it simple chemistry instead of soulmates, perhaps your flatmate is right._

_Yeah she usually is right :) We should definitely get a drink sometime and see what happens._

_Just not yet._

_Not til the blue balls are fucking indigo._

* * *

On a Tuesday evening near the beginning of September is Harry's first history group meeting at Ainsworth College.

"Oh, hello," Gary Unwin says with a tone of mild surprise in his voice when he comes up the hallway and finds Harry already there: leaning lazily against a wall next to the classroom door in a way that someone once told him in 1986 looked very alluring, which subsequently became his default position when waiting for anything. "You're a bit early, but that means you get to bagsy a good seat."

Harry follows him in and chooses a spot right at the front like the simpering swot he unfortunately is, at one end of the horseshoe-shaped arrangement of desks and chairs. "Yes, I'm afraid I'm usually late for everything and managed to over-correct myself somehow."

"You seemed to be leaning more towards the degree before. Not feeling it?"

He's certainly feeling _something_ , mainly because Gary just started casually rolling up the sleeves of his shirt as he spoke.

"I don't know. It's a hundred years since I was at school, I've forgotten absolutely everything I once knew about studying. Thought I'd better try out something more casual first before committing."

"Fair enough." Oh god, and apparently he's the sort of Cool Teacher who hops up to sit on the front of his desk with his legs swinging instead of in his seat behind it. Just wonderful. "There's a tea and coffee machine just down the hall if you want anything while we're waiting for the others."

Harry scarpers gratefully and gets himself a paper cup of cappuccino. Then, leaning against the corridor wall in his usual insouciant way, he gets out his phone, open the dating app, and sends a message.

_Tell me something I don't know about you._

The reply comes almost straight away and makes Harry burn his tongue on his coffee. _Ummm well I nearly became a pro gymnast. Gave it up as a kid after I broke my leg, but my flatmate got me into yoga at uni. I'm pretty bendy ;)_

_Good god. I'm 52 years old and would probably snap like a breadstick if I took a step slightly longer than usual._

_Well that's no good, how am I meant to ride you like a stallion if you're going to crumble under me?_

_Ride me like a gentle seaside donkey._

Cambridge replies with about fifteen crying laughing emojis and _fuck you I'm at WORK, don't make me laugh! Talk later x_

There are a few more people milling around in the corridor now, so Harry takes his drink and follows them back into the classroom before someone can steal his seat.

"We all here?" Gary asks after the last few stragglers take their places. He does a quick headcount and consults a sheet of paper on his desk then nods his head, satisfied. "Alright. Well, if we haven't met already my name's Gary Unwin, and I'll do my best to learn all of yours as quickly as I can. This is my second year teaching history here, and the first year we've been doing these discussion groups in history, literature, linguistics, and PPE - basically all of us who could spare an evening a week and thought it'd be fun - so you're kind of the guinea pigs. I'm sure it'll be fine, we'll just kind of muddle through together."

He's got a lovely, lopsided sort of grin, utterly charming and reassuring. A couple of women about Harry's age on the other side of the horseshoe of desks are gazing at Gary with unabashed hunger, and he hopes desperately that he's not making it so obvious himself.

"So, just as a kind of ice breaker before we get started properly, I thought maybe we could go around the room and introduce ourselves and say a few words about one of our favourite people or events from history? No pressure, just say pass if you're not feeling it." There's a ripple of murmurs and some nodding, and Gary looks faintly relieved as though he wasn't actually sure any of this was a good idea until now. "Alright, I'll go first. One of my favourites is Georges Méliès." He gestures behind himself to the film poster blu-tacked to the wall beside the whiteboard, the iconic image of the rocket ship embedded in the eye of the man in the moon. "Early film director. You probably know that picture even if you've never had the chance to watch any of his films. I didn't see any til my friend at uni dragged me to a film festival because she knew I liked old sci fi, Verne and Wells and all that, then I was hooked. And here's the fascinating thing about history, right - discovering Méliès led to a million other doors I still haven't finished opening. I'm sure you've felt the same way about things you've read that turned into ten-hour Wikipedia link binges, yeah? I saw all these special effects and first I just wanted to find out how they were done. Then from there I learned about the instability of old film and how it used to just burst into flames in storage sometimes, and how during the first world war they melted down miles of celluloid to make boot heels for soldiers and now all this work's lost forever unless, one, there were prints made and, two, they've survived a hundred years. Something about the transience of it all spoke to me somehow. I think because, as historians, we spend so much time poking around libraries and museums and castles and things and getting to see and feel all this _stuff_ that's survived through the centuries, but we're greedy and it's just never enough. We have to start obsessing like absolute masochists over all the lost sources as well."

(He says a bit more after that but Harry's not paying attention as much as he probably should because the word _masochist_ in the context of his absurdly handsome teacher being an absolute one, even if it's only a figure of speech, is quite a lot to process.)

The spotlight progresses slowly around the room, covering most of the obvious ones - Gandhi, Shakespeare, Elizabeth I, among others - and a few slightly less obvious - Artemisia Gentileschi, Hatshepsut, Clara Schumann - before the woman beside Harry starts talking about Aphra Behn being a spy and he has to scramble for a last-minute substitution.

"Beau Brummell," he blurts when it's his turn, mind blank and unable to think of anybody else. "I mean, hello everybody, my name is Harry Hart, and I used to dress up like an absolute clown in my youth to go out dancing and Brummell is the one we all blame now for our poor decisions back then regarding elaborate cravat knots and knee breeches and the like."

He witters on for a while longer then sinks back in his seat, feeling stupidly mortified about the whole thing and wishing he'd gone with the wine tasting after all.

(When he tells the others what a disaster he made of himself the next night at the pub, James laughs so hard that he has to be helped weeping out of his chair and into the toilet to wash his face and calm down, then spends the next half an hour texting with Roxy about it.)

* * *

"I just think it's really unfair," Eggsy says, not for the first time tonight.

Roxy, still texting with her dad, gives him a black look. "Unfortunately for you, I don't care what you think. A promise is a promise."

"Yeah, but when I said I wouldn't try and fuck him, that was before he came sashaying into my classroom like sex on stilts and casually told everyone he used to go out on the pull in knee breeches and lipstick. I'm fucking never gonna get that image out of my head, I've been dripping for twenty-four solid hours."

" _Leave my godfather alone_. Go and flash your internet boyfriend instead."

"Yeah, alright," Eggsy says, jumping off the sofa and waddling towards his bedroom with his hoodie held bunched up in front of his crotch. "I think I will."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _Will you meet me?_
> 
> _YES_
> 
> _Name the place and I will fucking run to you like Whitney Houston._
> 
> _Fuck off lmao I just laughed so loud_

Eggsy's lounging on his bed in a towel after showering, half-heartedly looking through the term's first batch of essays, when his phone pings a message.

_Want to play a game?_

_Buckaroo or Kerplunk? I love games._

_More along the lines of I ask you things and you tell me things._

Essays abandoned on his bedside table now, Eggsy finds himself grinning helplessly like a total fool just holding his phone in his hand, just knowing it's one end of a connection stretching off to who knows where in London. _Alright but only if I get to ask you things too. 20 questions._

_I'm going out, I'm afraid I don't have time for twenty. Five questions. Make them good._

_Haha ok then! Out with your mates or out for a shag?_

_The second, potentially. I haven't met the fellow before but he offered and, well, it's been almost a week since I last indulged._

_Lmao that almost sounds like a confession in priest porn XD_

_I beg your pardon, priest porn??_

_Hahaha yeah look that shit up, it's hilarious. There's loads of it around. Hot silver fox priest, hot young delinquent, getting off on dirty secrets in their little wank box. All heavy breathing through the screen. The sinner kneeling down to do his penance. I saw one once where the guy got spanked with a prayer book. I'm not religious but pretty sure it doesn't actually happen like that._

_That's appalling. You should be thoroughly ashamed of yourself._

_Forgive me, Father._

_I'm going to delete this app and throw my phone in the Thames._

_Yeah right. You'd miss me._

_I miss you every time I close this chat._

Time to get up and dry off and put some clothes on, because if he remains naked and horizontal there's only one way this conversation is going to end and he's meant to be going out too. _I've been thinking about when we meet up finally. Overthinking it, I mean. Like imagining just turning up in a bar or restaurant or knocking on your front door like any other hookup feels weird and idk why. I mean don't get me wrong, I do WANT to. I'm just nervous af for some reason._

_Perhaps because one gets used to the idea of meeting strangers. I don't feel we're anything like strangers any more._

_Yeah. Different kind of energy, hey. It'll be like hanging out with a friend. But that doesn't explain why it's so fucking scary._

_Well, for one thing there's the additional wanting to die choking on my cock, as I believe you once put it. I can't say I've ever wanted to do that with any of my friends._

_Oxford mate we have got to stop talking about your cock. I'm trying to get dressed and you're making it very h a r d as in difficult and also as in rigid as fuck._

_My apologies. Let's stop talking about yours as well, for similar reasons._

_Deal haha_

_Are you going out too?_

_Yep. Couple of drinks, quick bang if all goes well, home by midnight, six hours kip, then up for work._

_You know, I don't think I've ever asked what you do for a living._

_That one of your five questions? You worded it like a statement._

_I'm very good at loopholes._

_Idk how you managed to make even that sound filthy._

_Maybe you just have a filthy mind to go with your filthy mouth._

_Maybe so :D I have to finish getting dressed, talk later?_

_Looking forward to it. Have fun tonight._

_Yeah babe you too x_

* * *

Harry likes to ask the other person to choose a bar to meet up in for the sole purpose of using that choice to gauge what he's like before they actually meet. It's a game he's been playing with himself since about 1980 and his success rate is approaching 100% by now. That being said, there are still failure blips every now and then, and tonight turns out to be one of them.

He's been to the bar at China Tang before, and the restaurant as well, and always feels a simmering urge to go straight home and redecorate his entire house in the same sort of gloriously camp, slightly seedy 1930s Shanghai extravagance. There's a certain type of person who suits the setting so well - James, for instance, is a regular, and blends so well into the surroundings that he might as well be a faux-antique Art Deco lamp. Hamish hates it, because he has a stunted sense of the ridiculous and far more good taste than is decent for any person. Presumably someone who _chooses_ to meet a person here for the first time is on Harry's wavelength.

He's late, at least, which is certainly very Harry.

He finally makes it there when Harry's halfway through his second lychee martini. Harry recognises him at once from his app photos - tall, dressed in clothes that must be tailored to the extreme to look so casually perfect, wavy dark blond hair swept back from a face that he clearly knows is handsome, all cheekbones and lips and long, straight nose - and stands up from his bar stool to greet him.

"Yeah, hi," the man says, going in for a perfunctory handshake. "I'd apologise for being late but it's not my fault, some stupid cow ran her dirty little Mazda into a lamp post and held up traffic for bloody ages."

Harry blinks at him, taken slightly aback by his immediate spidey sense of _this man is an absolute raging arsehole and I don't think even I'm hard up enough for a good rogering to want him anywhere near me_. "Was she alright?"

"God, who cares? Hey," he interrupts himself, actually clicking his fingers at the bartender to get her attention, "G and T whenever you're finally ready." Then he faces Harry again, carrying on like he's not even aware of what a festering turd he's being. "So, what's your name?"

"Harry Hart. And you?"

"Charlie Hesketh. Listen, no offence but I've double booked myself tonight. You never know who's going to turn up from those apps, you know what I mean? But"--he pauses for a moment, eyes tracing over Harry's entire body from head to toe in a way that kind of makes him want to shrivel up like a snail retreating into its shell--"I appreciate you didn't upload pictures from 1995 like most guys your age do."

"I'm sorry - you've double booked yourself?"

"Yeah. You don't do that? God, I do it every time! Nothing worse than turning up to some fat old lying bastard and not having a fallback." Even the way he stirs his gin is fucking irritating. "He should be here in a minute, I'll probably tell him to fuck off then we can go. I mean, unless he's a good nine or ten."

Fucking unbelievable. "I'm _an eight_?"

"Negging," someone says behind them in a tone like ice. "Nice one. I didn't know people still did that."

Harry twists round at the familiar voice and finds Gary Unwin standing there with one devastatingly raised eyebrow and his arms folded. It's very 'disappointed teacher'. It's very, very attractive.

"Roxy taught me about it in uni. Guys with really, really small dick energy insult people thinking it's gonna make them try harder to impress. Trouble is - hi, Harry - Harry here knows full well he's an eleven, borderline twelve. And now I've heard the shit you let spill out of your mouth I wouldn't touch you even if you were the last bloke alive. So now me and Harry are going over there to that restaurant and we're having a date without you, and you can go and fuck yourself. Round of applause for your clever little system."

Charlie is staring at him, utterly stunned. He's obviously not used to hearing the word 'no' and doesn't have the slightest idea how to process it through his spoiled rotten brain; it starts to manifest as anger instead, a dark flush staining his cheeks and his face twisting up into a sneer that makes him far, far uglier than he seemed at first.

"You can't talk to me like that, you fucking pleb! I took pity on you agreeing to meet, you should be bloody thanking me on your knees."

"Yeah, that won't be happening. Have a good night. Harry?"

He holds out his arm. Harry takes it. He feels like a Hollywood starlet gliding through a party on the arm of a superhero. Obviously Charlie throws his glass on the floor in a tantrum and barges past them to storm out of the bar, but even he can't ruin this moment.

Then Gary leans in close to murmur in his ear, "I actually can't afford this restaurant, I budgeted for like one beer and a taxi. Just felt like rubbing his nose in it even more. Want a KFC?"

Being best friends with Hamish has led to Harry knowing the location of every KFC within a twenty-mile radius, and the closest one to the Dorchester is... on Gloucester Road, a three minute walk from his own front door. (Ten minutes when you're drunk and weaving your way home with a sloshed Scotsman clinging to one arm to keep himself upright and the other hugging a greasy bucket full of fried chicken.) Seems a bit forward to actually say so, given the circumstances, so he opts for vagueness instead.

"Not sure there's one within sensible walking distance. If you'd like to stay, the least I can do is buy you dinner for rescuing me from what I'm certain would have been the most unsatisfying, pitiful encounter of my whole life."

"Cups of tea, posh Chinese, what next?" Gary glances at him sideways, smiling like he's about to laugh. "Should've gone with the degree after all if you're trying to butter me up for good marks."

"The roast duck is superb," Harry says a fraction too loudly to drown out the roaring in his ears at the idea of _buttering him up_. "Please, I insist. I'd really like to."

"Alright, then."

For a night that began the way it did, it's almost miraculous how instantly comfortable things become now it's just the two of them. Not only that, but Harry remembers why restaurant dates were always his favourite in the days before he stopped bothering with the getting-to-know-you part in favour of just hopping right into various strangers' beds: watching Gary eat is a ridiculously gorgeous thing full of finger-licking and glimpses of tongue darting out to swipe a drop of sauce from his lip and the occasional _here, you have to try this_ accompanying a fork he holds across the table to Harry's mouth.

"So, I should probably tell you something," Gary says after a comfortable lull in conversation. He wipes his mouth with his napkin and sits back in his chair, regarding Harry with what might be a sultry sort of heat in his eyes but is possibly just the colour of the restaurant lighting. "Roxy said I'm not allowed to fuck you."

Harry almost inhales a noodle. "Did you express any kind of intention to do so, or did she simply want to inform you where the line is drawn?"

"I might have casually mentioned once or twice or ninety times I think you're hot as. But, quote, 'Eggs, I swear to god if you fuck my godfather I'm going to throw you out of that window'. And we live on the third floor, so, I dunno, I might not die but there'd be some shattered bones for sure."

"Well, we can't have that," Harry says seriously, taking a very very large gulp of ice water in an attempt to cool his burning face. "Eggs?"

"Oh. Yeah. Eggsy, that's what my mates call me. Gary's kind of like my work name, she never calls me that. Calls me Gareth sometimes when I'm in trouble for leaving pots in the sink or whatever, but never Gary. You can use whichever you want, though."

"Alright. Eggsy, then." Another sip of water. Another forkful of duck stir fry. Then, as casually as he can manage, "Might I ask, did she explicitly forbid you from _being_ fucked by her godfather?"

That makes Eggsy laugh, giddy and lovely and half-hidden behind his wine glass. "No. That's very sneaky of you."

"Well, I'm very good at loopholes," Harry says modestly. There's a sudden and palpable shift in the silence then, and Harry looks up curiously from his plate to see Eggsy's smile momentarily frozen before it softens again. Kicking himself mentally, he quickly adds, "I'm terribly sorry if I've overstepped, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable or--"

"No, it's alright, you've not," Eggsy interrupts. He reaches for a prawn cracker and chews it more like he's buying himself time to think than from any real desire to eat fish flavoured polystyrene. "You just reminded me of someone for a second. But that's really fucking rude of me to think about him when you're right here, sorry."

"No, please don't apologise." This whatever it is between them never truly seemed like it was on the menu at all, so the growing certainty of not actually getting it doesn't truly feel like a loss, more like waking up from a pleasant dream. "He must be incredibly handsome and clever and funny, whoever he is," Harry says, feeling brave enough for a bit of light teasing, and Eggsy kicks his ankle gently under the table and tells him to fuck off.

"He is, though," he adds after a moment. Watching something huge suddenly dawn on his face is like watching an incredible force of nature, like watching an avalanche or a tidal wave. "Oh my god," Eggsy says softly, staring down at his plate and then up at Harry, stricken. "He really is. What am I even doing here?" He stops, checks himself, and reaches for Harry's hand on the table to squeeze it. "I mean, you're lovely, you really really are. I like you so much, honest to god I do, and you're fucking gorgeous, and you've gone and bought me this amazing dinner and all these drinks and seriously it's been the nicest date of my whole life but I think I'm in love with someone else. I _know_ I am."

There's a rising, lurching feel in Harry's stomach, butterflies almost to the point of nausea, and he stares at Eggsy with what must be a perfect mirror of his wide-eyed surprise. "Eggsy... so am I. Good lord, what kind of a coward gets so afraid of buggering up something wonderful that he doesn't even try? _This kind_." He points viciously at himself, and Eggsy lets his other hand go and sinks his face into his palms, shaking with helpless laughter.

"Fuck me, couldn't have planned this any better if we tried. You're not just being a gentleman and trying to stop me feeling like a total fucking dickhead for leading you on, right?"

"Not at all. Absolutely not. Go and phone him, go!"

"You too before you chicken out." Eggsy's actually shaking when he gets to his feet, overwhelmed with adrenaline and mildly hysterical giggles, and makes an impatient _up_ gesture with his hand until Harry stands to accept his hug. He can feel Eggsy's whole body trembling in his arms. "Let me know how it goes next meeting, yeah? Good luck, Harry. Go and fucking get him."

He almost runs out of the restaurant, and Harry drinks the rest of Eggsy's leftover wine to settle his nerves a bit then gets out his wallet to pay the bill.

When he opens the app to send a message, there's already one waiting for him: _Needy bastard here can't wait to talk to you again haha. Hope you're having a good night :)_

 _Could be better_ , Harry types, and hits send.

_Oh noo :( are his pics stolen off a model he's found on instagram? Been there, not cool._

_He's charming and smart and funny and handsome and every good thing it's possible for a person to be. I'd just rather be with you._

_Oxford. SAME. I fucking can't tell you how perfect this guy is I just had dinner with, but it's just not going to happen cos he's not you. I can't breathe rn I'm shaking with nerves hahahahaha_

_Will you meet me?_

_YES_

_Name the place and I will fucking run to you like Whitney Houston._

_Fuck off lmao I just laughed so loud and this woman in the street gave me stink eye XD Can we go to yours? You live on your own, right? Not really fair on my flatmate having to listen to what I want to do to you._

_Are there cabs around? 11 Stanhope Mews South, just off Gloucester Road. I'm leaving now, I should be be home in twenty minutes._

A moment's pause while Harry fumbles to get his jacket on and wonders how he's ever going to get his cock to do its job if he can no longer even work his bloody arms, then another message pops up: _Just flagged one down, omw_

 _See you in 20_ , Harry types, and races upstairs two at a time to the street level to flag down a car of his own.

 _Ngl I'm scared half dead_ , says the next message.

Harry stops drumming his fingers restlessly on the seat beside himself and replies, _Why?_

_What if after all this you actually see my face and just.......... don't fancy me?_

_I'll pop a paper bag over it and still devour your exquisite cock._

A screen full of crying laughing emojis and then two aubergines. Presumably that's good?

When the cab reaches home, Harry asks the driver to pull up at the top of the mews like always to spare his elderly neighbours the grumble of the engine waking them up at almost midnight. That and he feels slightly dizzy with anticipation, palms sweating and butterflies flapping ferociously in his gut again, and wants to take this one final minute to walk down the row of houses to his front door in the cool night air.

There's the dark shape of a hunched figure sitting on the marble bench by his front door. Harry tries to surreptitiously blot his clammy hands dry on his trousers, watching the figure notice him and then get to his feet.

Then...

"What the actual fuck?" Eggsy murmurs, eyes huge, staring up at Harry when he gets close enough to see in the moonlight.

Harry's dumbstruck, which hasn't happened in a very long time, mouthy old sarcasm machine that he is. "We could have saved a taxi fare," he says stupidly - then Eggsy surges up on tiptoe to kiss him at last, all the weight of weeks and this one final glorious evening giving it force enough to make him almost overbalance, and Harry wraps his arms around Eggsy's back to steady him, holding him so tightly against his chest that he can feel the very moment when both of their trembling finally subsides.

"So, you wanna show me your bookcases?" Eggsy asks, breathing the words so close to Harry's mouth that he can taste the ghost of the wine still on his tongue. "And the rest."

"And the rest," Harry agrees, finding his keys and Eggsy's hand at the same time to lead him into the house.

* * *

The next time everyone meets up at the pub after work is excruciatingly awkward.

Harry sits there brazenly holding Eggsy's hand, staring coolly at Roxy as if to dare her to object.

Roxy stares back, brazenly holding Hamish's hand. _An eye for an eye_ , she's seeming to exude like cartoon stink waves from every pore. _A horrifying best friend liaison for a horrifying best friend liaison. Deal with that, Hart._

Hamish is wearing a woolly tartan scarf indoors, even though it's sweltering hot in here with all the radiators on. It only draws more attention to the mass of sucked neck bruises he must be hiding from the others, despite not being visible at all.

James has never been this quiet for this long since a bout of laryngitis in 1998. The peace is wonderful.

"When Harry and Eggsy get married," Alistair says into the silence hanging like a stormcloud over their table, "let's make Charlie sew their suits."

* * *

The End

* * *

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](http://deepdarkwaters.tumblr.com)
> 
> [Leave prompts here if there's anything you want to see!](http://deepdarkwaters.tumblr.com/ask)


End file.
